If only I could speak the language
of the early centuries,
to speak of love in such a dialect
would cause such beautiful rhymes.
Speak the language of the oldest poet
touch a speck of their talent
make an image in a sentence
with the beauty of one word.
The dialect of the poets older,
who would put that sentence in such a manner
how I envy their words
their common speech.
Envy their knowledge, the knowledge unseen.
Envy their phrases,
if only I could come up with one my own.
How wondrous those scriptures were
How envious my mind doth feel
wishing for a poem with those words
those phrases of the olden days.
Alas,
I do not foresee it quickly.
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